Sharpshooter
by LarryKoopa78
Summary: Civil war and a lone scout's struggle to survive through it.


**Note: **_**Mario **_** and all related themes and plot elements are property of their respective owners.**

**This story was inspired by a short story I read in English class called **_**The Sniper **_**by Liam O' Flaherty. The plot of this story is heavily based on that one and I recommend it to read. It's short and sweet with some changes. Enjoy.**

The sun descended below the horizon. Koopa Castle lay in the absence of light except for the dim glow of the many lava pits that bubbled erratically and cast only a pale illumination across the entire area.

Around the front side of the castle the magnificent flashes of magical artillery burst out. Constant bombardment created an invigorating chrysanthemum of light and shattered the silence of the night so frequently not a moment of peace reigned. The civil war between the Royal Guard and rebels continued.

Defected soldiers, partisans and civilians composed the rebel fighting force committed to do whatever necessary to overthrow the malicious King Morton. Their opposition fought to retain the koopan monarch and eliminate what they saw as a pitiful revolution.

On a rooftop in a recently abandoned barracks amongst the towering factories of the Koopan Industrial District a royal koopa scout lay waiting. Clad in standard issue body armor complete with a coloured collar indicating rank and military sector his rifle sat next to him with a pair of field binoculars hanging from his neck. His face, although hidden from his sterile silver helmet, was that of a respectable soldier, solemn yet proud. Underneath however, his eyes gleamed with the excitement of a deranged killer but showed depth and consideration. Eyes that were not afraid to witness death many times over.

The scout sat in a relaxed position wolfing down a packet of military rations, the only nourishment in a soldiers daily supply issued once, if the couriers could reach them. Finishing the rations, he then retrieved a small flask of alcoholic contents from his shell and took one long sip slowly, savouring every moment.

His gaze drifted to that of his rifle lying untouched beside him. Firearms were a rare sight even in the army reserved for top class commandos and used only as a last resort. Despite their effective killing potential, guns were very unreliable around the mysterious unseen force of magic. The complex mechanisms of a firearm were rendered useless to even the touch of the most novice sorcerers severely limiting their usage in battle. The Industrial District's environment compensated for this however. Numerous power plants spread out over the area used a lava decomposition method where lava was filtered underground to refinement stations and underwent a complex chemical reaction producing energy and a strange mix of leftover gases deposited out of the plant's chimneys. These gases, seen as unusable waste, interrupted magical control effectively disabling it. Creating the perfect opportunity for both sides to employ the deadly ranged weaponry.

Returning the flask to his shell, the scout grabbed his rifle and crawled away to the opposite side of the roof keeping his head low. He crouched beside a break in the parapets lining the roof and raised his binoculars. Almost immediately after, a bullet struck the parapet leaving a deep mark on the thick stone; the scout recoiled backwards landing on his shell.

One military flipping maneuver later the scout edged away to the right and placed his helmet on the muzzle of his rifle. Raising it above him, he cautiously peered through a space between the stone. There was a flash and his helmet flew off the rifle landing a few feet away. The shot had come from across the street. Retrieving his helmet, which now adorned a serious puncture, the scout rolled over to a pile of industrial equipment and aligned his eye level with the top of the parapet.

The source of the enemy fire came from the adjacent rooftop but no enemy could be seen. The faint glow of lava coming from within the structure outlined the building against the night sky, his enemy was well hidden.

Suddenly an armored vehicle made its way up the street and came to a halt on the opposite side eighty yards off. The scout's heart raced, it was an enemy vehicle. The panting of its motor could be heard, along with the squeaks and clanks of unoiled metal joints. The scout wanted to open fire but the firepower of his weapon was far below the minimum needed to even dent the tough outer layer of that monstrosity.

The scout lifted his binoculars to get a better look and saw, round the corner of a side street, a clubba approaching the vehicle, his head covered by excess scraps of cloth. The clubba began speaking to the turret operator and pointed out the scout's position. An informer.

The turret rotated to face the scout, a paratroopa's wings and head appeared. The scout put the crosshairs of his scope on the troopa's body and fired. The paratroopa fell out of sight. The frightened clubba dashed to the side street. The scout let off another round. The clubba collapsed in the middle of the street with a cry of pain and soon lay silent.

Just after another shot rang out and the scout dropped, his left forearm went limp. His rifle fell at his feet and he started breathing heavily. _I've been hit, _he thought.

Blood started leaking out of the plate covering of his arm; the bullet had made it through the weak joint of his inner elbow covering. Calming himself the scout took a knife from his shell and dislodged the plate armor, it clattered to the ground with a noise that rung through his head and beat his brain. There was a hole in his forearm but no exit wound, the bullet was lodged in the bone, not severely though as the weak point in his armor lessened the force to a limited extent.

He bent his arm back and forth until it fell back in place; the scout clenched his good hand into a tight fist to overcome the pain. Bracing himself once more and taking out his medical kit the scout lodged the knife slowly careful not to sever any major blood vessels. He bit his good arm furiously as a shockwave of pain came over him. After some fiddling the loose bullet dropped out of his wound covered in a stain of red.

Quickly he broke the neck of the rubbing alcohol bottle included with his emergency kit and let the clear liquid flow in and around the wound. It felt as though his arm was on fire but the sharp pain eventually receded, he dabbed the wound with a cotton ball and tightly fashioned his bandage covering his injury.

For a few short moments he lay on the rooftop gathering his thoughts forcing the pain out of his conscious perception.

Below him all was calm. The enemy vehicle had made a quick retreat, no doubt to inform other enemies of the scout's location, with the paratroopa's lifeless body tumbling inside the turret. The clubba's corpse remained still in the open street. The scout lay cradling his wounded arm for quite some time, planning escape. The disturbing giggles and noises of congregating boos could be heard overhead along with the fearsome growls and barks of wild chomps in the distance ready to feast on the collective casualties.

It was imperative that the enemy not find him injured here on the rooftop. The enemy scout covered his escape routes. The scout had to kill him and he could not use his rifle. His last non-melee weapon was a revolver, which would be his only chance. Then he thought of a strategy.

The enemy across would not fall for another decoy helmet, the scout however could utilize the same technique with a few adjustments. Looking around the pile of metal scraps around him the scout found a head shaped piece of old iron and a long thin rod. The scout gathered up the materials and set his plan into action. He placed the head shaped metal piece on the metal rod and slowly raised it leaning it on a large piece of scrap metal. Crouched low to the ground the scout crawled back near the parapet, took off his actual helmet, placed it on the muzzle of his rifle and raised it above the parapet careful not to expose the punctured side.

There was almost an instant response, and a bullet pierced the centre of his helmet. The scout slanted his rifle forward and allowed his helmet to clatter on the ground below. Catching his rifle in the middle the scout dropped his left hand over the parapet and let it hang limp. Soon after the rifle fell to the street and the scout dropped to the roof dragging his hand with him.

Slowly rising to his feet, the scout peered over at the adjacent rooftop. His plan had worked. The enemy had seen the scrap metal helmet as a decoy and fired at the real helmet which was the secondary decoy, believing to have killed his enemy. He now stood straight silhouetted against the glow of the factories clear in sight.

A small grin showed on the scout's face as he lifted the revolver to aim at his enemy. At about forty yards it was an easy shot even with an injured arm but the pain from within pressed on him with the weight of ten tons and made him tremble slightly. Steadying himself he took a deep breath and checked his aim. He released the air from his nostrils and slowly squeezed the trigger. The force of the shot deafened him and he fell back, his hand trembling violently, the revolver fell from his grasp.

When the scout rose he peered over the edge of the parapet and uttered a cry of joy. His enemy had been hit and was leaning off the edge of the rooftop struggling to maintain balance. His rifle fell first and not too soon after his body accompanied, smashing onto the ground below with an impact that could shatter concrete. Then he moved no more.

The corners of the scout's mouth slowly drooped downwards and he felt a sudden chill run through him. His joy was extinguished in an instant and he was struck hard with contrition. He felt a powerful wave of emotion and mixed feelings come over him. Remorse, guilt, pain, fear and anger. His heart dropped and he felt as though something in his existence was now gone, just like the life of his enemy, another living being with hopes, dreams and happiness. Gone forever.

The scout started shaking with revolt and grabbed his helmet off the rooftop, smashing it viciously on the parapet, cursing the war, himself and everybody else. His helmet broke into two pieces at the bullet hole and the loud shriek of bent metal shocked him into submission. He recoiled from the adrenaline rush and started breathing calmly, he began laughing, his mind no longer crowded with unstable thoughts.

The scout retrieved his alcoholic flask and emptied it. He felt slightly dizzy under its influence but managed to grab his revolver and steady himself. Then he decided to leave the rooftop and search for his commanding officer to report. He headed down the structure through the skylight and was soon on street level.

Curiosity of the enemy's identity suddenly nagged at him like an itch to be scratched. The scout turned over to look at his enemy's body lying in a crumpled heap across the street. He thought his opponent to be a good shot, whoever he may be. Perhaps the scout knew him before the split in armed forces, maybe they were apart of the same company. He decided to risk going over to check. Peering out the doorway all was quiet. The sounds of battle raged near the castle and the sun had set leaving the area void of sunlight and dim.

The scout dashed across the street. A moderate explosion rocked the ground and the building behind him collapsed into rubble, but he escaped untouched. He dived to the ground landing beside the corpse and lay still for a moment. Everything went silent.

Then the scout turned over the body and looked into his brother's face.

**The King Morton mentioned would be Bowser's father, so the time period of this story would be take place during the generation before Bowser. **


End file.
